


sing no songs of daylight

by ceylontea



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, Hypothermia, M/M, Mild D/S elements, Naked Cuddling, Nudity, Riding, Smut, bi grog, big storm trope, cuddle or die, power bottom gilmore, which i didn't expect until i started writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26339590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceylontea/pseuds/ceylontea
Summary: grog gets caught in a storm and knows exactly where to take refuge. gilmore thinks he needs to be more careful. perhaps he should teach grog what it means to be taken care of...
Relationships: Shaun Gilmore/Grog Strongjaw
Comments: 21
Kudos: 79





	1. rain

**Author's Note:**

> yes i'm back at it. look away. but also leave comments! part two coming soon...

For a whole year after the dragons were defeated, Vox Machina settled down to rest, and Grog found himself itching to explore. Truthfully, he’d always had restless feet and dreamy eyes. His heart was fixed on some firm point over the horizon, seeking something, _needing_ something.

He just wished he knew what it _was._

Anyway, he searched fruitlessly for Scanlan for a while, and visited some other friends, and sought adventures in between. One autumn day, he found his path winding back north toward Emon. He expected rain, eyeing the endless black clouds that were descending down the coast, but he didn’t anticipate just how bad the storm would be. Perhaps he’d grown too used to travelling with Keyleth, relying on her for weather watching.

When the heavens opened, it was timed well with a snap of thunder on the horizon, like something breaking loose. Grog winced as thick rain began to pelt against his bare scalp, pulling his furs tighter around his shoulders.

Naturally, he felt the cold very little. As a goliath, and after growing with the Herd of Storms, he was accustomed to exposure and near-freezing temperatures. Developing his hardiness had been a point of pride. But he was still mortal—still vulnerable—little as he liked to admit it.

He peered out to the horizon. Thick grey mist was swallowing the land, removing blurry signposts that he couldn’t read anyway, smudging the edges of the road into the outskirts of trees and fields. The towers of glimmering white and cream that marked the city in the distance were now gone. Continuing like this, he would be lost.

Grog swore quietly under his breath and turned toward the beach that ran up on his left side. At least, following the coast, he was guaranteed to find the coastal settlement eventually.

Yet the minutes wore by too slowly, painful cold now condensing a headache at his brow. Grog began to jog, huffing out breaths as a rapidly dropping temperature took his lungs, and the wind picked up, howling straight from the water, spraying salt over his lips. So, perhaps the ocean had been a mistake, but at least he wasn’t lost.

He told himself he’d made the smart decision when, an hour later, he thundered into the city, his immense stride ploughing through several puddles on his way.

His instincts had taken over by then, weak as he was. His body screamed at him to find warmth—to survive.

Yet he passed taverns and inns without hesitating. He continued to run. The streets were deserted other than the occasional sprinting figure in a cloak, dashing doorway to doorway. Those who came close enough shot him bemused stares as his passed, wondering at his bare chest, covered only by his fists tightly clenched over a cloak of fur, knuckles white with cold.

At last, Grog found what he needed. He careened to a halt in front of a familiar store. Though the wooden doors had been shut over the usual beaded curtain, there were lights shining inside. He began to pound a fist against the door.

…

Shaun startled from his work at the sound of someone banging at the shop entrance. He frowned. Sometimes he really, truly, despised customers. He wiped oil from his hands as best he could, half-way through fixing some magical clockwork, and went to see what was going on.

He schooled his expression into a gentle but firm frown on his way, not wanting to offend anyone, but certainly hoping to enforce his boundaries. The sign in the window and the closed door should be clear enough. He shouldn’t have to scold the public too.

But when Shaun spun the handle and wrenched open the door, all grumpy words died on his lips.

Grog stood outside, his grey skin tinged blue with cold, his whole immense form absolutely trembling with misery.

“H-h-h-hi,” he stammered. “C-can I come ins-s-?”

“Of course!” Shaun gasped, stepping back to make way and grabbing him by the shoulder to steady his progress as he fell through the open doorway. “Grog, my dear boy, what are you doing here?”

“Was walking to Emon. Storm came.”

Grog shivered so hard that his teeth clacked together. Already, a puddle was forming under his feet. Shaun’s urge to protect rose strong in his chest.

“To Emon from _where_?” he hissed, suddenly annoyed.

“F-from along the coast somewhere. I don’t know.”

Shaun scowled. Of all the foolish choices…

“How long did you walk?” he said. “My goodness, Grog, there must have been a million good places to stop. You could have found a tavern. You—”

Grog looked up sharply, his expression silencing Shaun instantly. There was water trickling through his beard, flattening it to the surprising roundness of his cheeks. His eyes were grey and uncertain and open as the sky before the storm hit.

“’M sorry,” he said. “Sh-should I go—”

“No!” Shaun said, just as firm, though he felt his brow soften. “Of course not. You’re always welcome here.”

Grog nodded, a harsher shiver shaking his body. He hadn’t yet unwound his hands from where they clutched the fur around his shoulders. Gilmore lurched forward to pry them free. The stiff frozen fingers felt so breakable under his warm touch.

“Drop that,” he murmured.

Grog obeyed, also letting his pack fall from his shoulder. He stood in place, dazed from the cold.

“Follow me, dear,” Shaun said carefully.

He placed a hand on the small of Grog’s back, guiding him through the shop and out into the rear room. His thoughts barely even drifted to the water on his wooden floors. He would deal with it all in the morning. For now, his every sense was focused on his friend—the feel of quivering muscles under his hand, the snuffling of a blocked nose, pink with returning blood, the lost look on Grog’s usually self-assured face.

Shaun waved a hand to unlock the door to his private bedroom at the back of the shop, kept in case he needed to sleep the night.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded.

Grog did as he was told without another thought, kicking off his boots first. Shaun threw a few logs into the fireplace and sparked arcane flame to light beneath them. He’d decided it wasn’t good to keep Grog in the already warmed workshop. He needed to adjust slowly to the heat, so it didn’t shock his system too bad.

When Gilmore turned back, he found the iced goliath struggling to undo the buckles of his belt and the armour around his chest and shoulders. Shaun made a sympathetic little noise in the back of his throat and stepped forward to help.

“You’re such a fool,” he muttered. “Walking all that way. Getting yourself into this state…”

“S-sorry,” Grog stammered.

“Don’t apologise,” Shaun snapped.

Grog fell silent, watching him through lashes clumped together by rain—thick and black and strangely pretty in contrast with his otherwise square face. They were standing very close. Grog even leaned into the movements of Shaun’s body, as if craving the heat. His slow heartbeat was picking up. His lower lip still shook.

Shaun made quick work of each buckle. Away fell the armoured shoulder plate. Down went the straps around thick biceps, and muscled thighs. Finally, only the belt remained. Shaun’s deft fingers slipped it from its loop and let it drop, last bits of fabric going with it.

He looked away immediately, allowing Grog some privacy, but he felt extra heat flood his face. Because it was _cold._ But Grog was… generously proportioned.

Of course, he could have guessed that. It meant nothing, really. Technically.

“Wait here,” he said.

He marched into the other room and yanked open the chest where he kept extra linen. After a quick dig, he found a towelled sheet, and quickly took it back. Grog hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes were slightly closed. His teeth chattering and the fire sputtering to life in the hearth were the only sounds in the entire room.

“Wrap this around yourself,” Shaun said.

He turned to tend the fire, listening close to the fluffy brush of fabric as Grog wrapped himself tight in the towel. He heard astonished snuffling noises as the friction startled freezing skin.

Silence fell again.

“Get in bed,” Shaun said.

For the first time, Grog’s obedience wasn’t immediate. He hovered. Shaun glanced back at him. He was firmly wrapped in downy purple, one hand holding the towel closed. But the other hand reached out, his mouth open like he wanted to speak.

“Get. In. Bed.” Shaun repeated.

More colour seemed to rise to Grog’s cheeks.

“Yes,” he breathed, and spun to the bed, clambering down under the sheets.

Shaun saw him inhale, curling tight on himself and burrowing like a creature sinking into hibernation. On any other day, Shaun might have worried about the fact that he hadn’t washed those sheets for a week. He liked to be a better host than that. Today, it didn’t matter. Today was about survival.

“I’ll make soup,” he said. “I’ll check on you in exactly two minutes.”

“Mm,” Grog mumbled.

“You’ll be okay.” Shaun said it like an instruction.

Then he hurried away to prepare something warm.

…

Gilmore’s smell was all around him. The floral-and-spice scent he wore at his wrists was mixed in with the salty nectar of his body. As Grog heaved shuddering breaths through his lungs, desperate for the air to warm him, he felt completely surrounded, embraced, and overwhelmed.

He pushed his face into a pillow, inhaling deeper, and found himself craving more—yearning for a closer, realer, human touch. The sheets were soft enough, but they weren’t skin. They weren’t the vitality of a body against his.

Oddly, Grog remembered these kinds of thoughts had hit him before. Gilmore’s image visited him in those muddled night hours than slipped quickly from his mind when dawn came.

Now, they flooded back.

He liked how Gilmore looked tonight. His robes were loose and practical. He had a pair of gold spectacles perched on his nose, overly magnified like he’d been doing delicate work, and setting off the pretty flash of his jewellery. His hair was unbound and tumbling over his wide shoulders.

He’d been so close too. There was such focus in his brow, his touch so strong and gentle, methodically removing all those buckles.

And his voice—so sharp and commanding and full of intent.

Grog trembled for a reason entirely unrelated to the cold. He listened to the gentle crackle of the fire, the distant rain drumming at the window behind heavy curtains, and, further, the clinks and scuffles of Gilmore working in the kitchen.

The heat of the room seemed to be hitting him now. It was sharp in his fingers and toes, making him whimper. The door swung open at last.

“How do you feel, dear boy?”

Grog shivered again at those words.

“C-cold,” he stuttered.

Gilmore’s face creased with concern, thick brows making his eyes look mournful and sweet. He bent a knee beside the bed and felt Grog’s forehead. Grog barely resisted the urge to press his face into that wide palm like a cat.

“This doesn’t look good,” Gilmore said.

“H-hurts,” Grog whined, lifting his fingers.

“Oh, I know,” Gilmore’s gentle touch fluttered over him. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s the blood getting back to your extremities—”

“M-my?”

“Extremities. Your fingers and toes, sweet man.” Gilmore looked pained when he tried to smile. “I can’t think what else to do.”

“Don’t leave me.” The plea slipped out. “Don’ need soup.”

“Let me get some. I insist.”

“Be fast. P-please.”

The simple word changed Gilmore’s entire expression. His eyes traced the shape of Grog beneath the blankets, still quivering so furiously he shook the bed.

“One moment,” he murmured.

Grog wanted to protest, but his mouth moved too sluggishly. His friend had already slipped from the room. The minutes dragged by until he returned, bowl and spoon in hand. He lifted Grog’s shoulders enough to settle underneath him, propping him against one knee. Then he tried to spoon soup into Grog’s mouth.

Grog’s acceptance of the food was half-hearted. Though it smelled amazing, he didn’t have the energy to eat. The spoon clanked against his teeth, and Gilmore paused.

“That’s enough,” Grog said.

“You’ve had three bites.”

“Please,” he whispered again.

Reluctantly, Gilmore put the bowl aside.

With no need to worry about jostling the soup—and with a radiant body so deliciously near—Grog could no longer resist another instinct. He curled in and nuzzled his face into Gilmore’s belly. Gilmore jolted. Then his hands came to sweep in soothing circles on Grog’s towel-covered back.

“There’s something,” Gilmore said slowly. “That helps with hypoth- with the cold. If it’s really bad.”

“Naked spooning?” Grog asked. He was familiar with the concept, both from the herd and from the occasional medical conversation between Pike and one of her friends.

Gilmore let out the smallest burst of laughter, then quickly composed himself.

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “Or just… cuddling.”

Grog fully considered all the implications of such a solution. He felt a strange pooling of heat in his belly—a warmth heightened by anticipation, knowing more heat would soon be coming.

“Yeah,” he said. “Get in here.”

Gilmore hesitated only a moment longer. He turned away, perhaps for modesty—though Grog’s addled thoughts didn’t consider such arbitrary social constructs—and began to undress. The outer robe came off, followed by the soft shirt underneath, and the unlacing of the silken trousers. Velvety skin revealed itself in the open air, dark brown turned to luscious perfection by the flickering firelight and dancing shadows. Gilmore had a thick dusting of curled hair over his body, thickening temptingly between his legs, drawing Grog’s wandering eye to his ass as he bent to slide his pants off.

That ass. So round and full and promising. He wanted to put his hands on it.

Gilmore turned around. His face twitched in surprise when he saw Grog had been watching. He shifted a little more self-consciously, though he attempted a teasing smirk that was typical of his usual easy flirting. His dick was thick, enhanced by its thatch of curls. Grog tore his eyes away.

Gilmore pulled back the blankets, making him whine at the touch of cold air, though it was quickly gone. Instead, there was a warm body in bed beside him, gentle arms winding around him. Grog let out an appreciative sigh. Gilmore released a small hiss of surprise when freezing toes tucked against his legs.

“This okay?” Grog asked, tangled up in him, surrounded by his heartbeat.

“S’okay,” Gilmore assured him.

And they let themselves relax.

Gilmore whispered soothing things, gentle kindnesses that flowed together endless, until Grog lost track of the words and simply absorbed the deep reverberations of his voice. His convulsions slowly calmed, easing out of his body as warmth flooded in, until at last, he was loose and pliant in Gilmore’s arms.

He wondered why, exactly, everything felt so right.

…

Shaun was oddly comfortable, considering how deep his stress had been. Lying so close, it was easy to monitor the condition of his friend. In fact, he made sure to focus exclusively on that—counting the length of breaths, whispering comfort—because he couldn’t allow himself to consider the stunning specimen of a man pressed right against his naked body.

“Maybe you should fuck me?” Grog said.

Shaun froze. His fingers stilled their gentle exploration of the planes of muscle on Grog’s back.

He could not have heard correctly.

“W-what?”

He pulled back to better see Grog’s face in the light of the undulating flames.

“Maybe, if we have sex,” Grog said, completely serious, “it would help.”

Shaun was taken aback. He wasn’t usually one for casual encounters. Though he’d engaged in them before, he always proved too much of a hopeless romantic. Yet faced with this expression—this man so dear and drowned and vulnerable—he found it very hard to resist.

“Do you even like men?”

“I dunno,” Grog considered it. “Never thought about it.”

Shaun felt light-headed. “Okay…”

“But I think I’m into you.”

“Right.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I’m not sure.” Shaun considered the effects of hypothermia, as he understood them. He thought of the confusion brought by the cold.

“Perhaps I need to show you,” Grog mused. “Perhaps you need to feel…”

He tilted closer and waited a heartbeat for protest before locking their lips together. There was nothing uncertain about it. The kiss was open-mouthed and heady and passionate. Shaun allowed himself a moment of weakness. He sank into it. His fingernails dimpled Grog’s back as he tried to press him, impossibly, closer. Grog rolled, pulling him on top, panting a desperate sigh of need right into his open mouth. A jolt of electricity rolled down Shaun’s spine and pooled in his gut.

Then he felt the weight of Grog’s cock heavy against his hip.

He broke the kiss.

“ _Grog_ ,” he breathed. “My god, this is difficult to say. We-we can’t do this.”

“But we can.”

Grog looked so shattered that Shaun almost forgot his own logical reasoning.

“We can’t, my dear, dear friend,” he said stubbornly. “You’re sick and vulnerable and I refuse to take advantage of—”

“But I _want_ you to _—"_

“Listen,” he interrupted. He couldn’t help letting out another fond chuckle. “How about this? If you still want me later, when you’re feeling better, we can discuss it. Right now is not the time.”

Grog growled very softly. He looked like he wanted to argue, but his face relaxed. He was a good man. He wouldn’t push it.

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed.

“I’m sorry.”

Shaun stayed on top for another moment. He lifted a careful hand to caress Grog’s cheek. He planted a chaste, sweet kiss on his lips.

“Go to sleep,” he told him.

Then he lay back beneath the covers, holding Grog more loosely now, trying to be calm despite his racing heart.

He listened to his friend sighing and settling, clearly uncomfortable, hard as he was. It took several minutes for his breathing to even out, his weight sinking into Shaun's arms.

Brimming with sudden, unexpected, baffling emotion, Shaun pressed a gentle kiss to Grog’s head, at the point of one black marking. The rain was still cascading over the store outside, as loud and fundamental to the world’s workings as the rush of blood searing through veins. The golden glow of the fire evolved as the logs burned higher and then lower. Over an hour later, content that his patient was in a better state, Shaun slipped into sleep as well.


	2. fire

Shaun woke to immense heat and the sound of chattering teeth. It was an immediate, undeniable distraction from the previous day’s confusing muddle of feelings. One look at Grog told him a fever had hit, and hit hard. He immediately withdrew from the bed, slipping into his clothes and bustling about the room to check the hearth and the windows. The fire was out. Rain still poured down outside.

When he was sure everything was okay, he went and laid the back of his hand against Grog’s forehead, just to check how bad things were. He let out a quiet hiss at the temperature. His eyes flickered over his friend, catching on the beads of sweat against his skin, and the flush in his cheeks.

Grog let out a quiet snuffle. His nose sounded blocked.

“Well, crap,” Shaun muttered.

Grog’s eyelids fluttered and opened.

“G-Gilmore?” he asked, hands stretching awkwardly in the empty bed, searching for signs of another body.

“I’m here,” Shaun said quietly.

Grog rolled to look at him. A dopey smile crossed his face—the kind of smile that made Shaun’s heart pick up its pace, before he quickly swallowed down the feeling.

“’S hot in here,” Grog mused. He reached a clumsy hand and scratched his beard.

“No, it’s not,” Shaun said. “It’s freezing.”

He touched his hand to Grog’s head again.

“But the fire—” Grog started. He realised it was out, just a few shimmering coals winking at him from ash.

“It’s out,” Shaun said. “Wait a moment.”

He dashed off into the workshop and filled a bowl with cool water from his kitchenette pump. Then he set a fresh pot boiling, in case he needed it later. He pulled a few rags out from hiding, tucked a jar of honey into his pocket for its antibacterial properties, and made his way back to the bedroom.

Grog was trying to sit up, shaky and weak on his elbows, and butt naked under the sheets.

“Lie down,” Shaun scolded, his old frustration returning. “Stop trying to do things. Let me take care of you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Lie down.”

Grog obeyed. Shaun sat on the edge of the bed and carefully laid a damp, cool cloth against his forehead. Grog sighed with pleasure.

“Better?” Shaun asked.

“Better,” Grog said. “Sorry for getting sick.”

Shaun’s scowl deepened. It was rare for something to annoy him this much. But seeing Grog so miserable was doing something to him. “Don’t apologise for that. This isn’t you fault.”

He ran a thumb across Grog’s cheek, swiping away a tear-like glimmer of sweat. He could see every detail in the planes of Grog’s face: the small bits of stubble at the edges of his beard-line, The slender scar against the side of his cheek, the depth of his cloud-and-ocean eyes. Shaun’s mind filled with images of the previous night—those lips on his, those eyes pleading.

Feeling heat rise to his face, he turned away and folded the blankets halfway back, making sure they were in easy reach should Grog need to pull them up again, making sure a sheet was left to preserve his modesty.

“You’re nice,” Grog murmured.

“So I’ve been told.”

“’M I allowed to sleep?”

“Please do,” Shaun whispered. “I’ll look after you.”

…

Grog’s mind felt addled by rapidly switching temperatures, and thought-rending shivers, and the horrible weight of sickness in his nose and lungs. Gilmore was the only constant, reliable thing in it all. He drifted in and out of sight, sometimes followed by strange swirling colours, which may have been a hallucination. He helped to move the blankets around as Grog complained of being too hot or too cold. He never seemed to run out of patience. He always brought more food and water.

“You need to stay hydrated. You’re losing so much,” he said.

“No, I already have too much,” Grog groaned, trying to gesture to the sheets soaked with his sweat.

When he coughed, it echoed in his skull, sending spots dancing in front of his eyes. He wanted to sleep very badly. He couldn’t resist the urge for long.

“How bad’m I now?” he would ask sometimes.

That always made Gilmore lean in and press a hand to his head, which he liked more than actually getting an answer. His soft skin felt so cool compared to the fever. Grog wanted to push into his touch. He wanted him back in the bed again. But it seemed impractical now.

“C-can’t stop shaking,” he whimpered.

“I know, dear boy, I know,” Gilmore said. He touched his face again. “It’ll turn soon. I can tell.”

Grog tried to read for worry in his eyes, but was struck, instead, but how beautiful his friend was. It seemed so easy to get distracted now. All his inhibitions were gone—boiled away to nothing by delirium.

“You’re so pretty,” Grog hummed. “So kind.”

Gilmore chuckled. “Thank you.”

“You _are,_ ” Grog said, worried he didn’t get it. “You’re the prettiest. I love... your hair.”

“Thanks, Grog.”

“I love… your eyes.”

Grog’s own eyes were getting heavy, sleepy and slow-blinking.

“I love your voice,” he said. “Talk t’ me?”

He wasn’t sure if Gilmore ever responded. He sank into the depths of unconsciousness, and soon after, his fever finally broke.

…

Shaun watched over Grog for the next four days. On the final morning, after a great deal of fussing and fretting, he finally announced that he was getting better.

“You could probably manage to be up and about,” he admitted. “Though I’m not letting you outside yet. Just around the shop. If you want to.”

Grog, already restless, very much wanted to. Business was slow in the store anyway, with the lingering storm still battering Emon, so Shaun had sent home his staff with full pay. He had plenty of time to dote on his guest.

Mostly, they sat in the workroom. Grog poked around the place and broke a few things and generally made himself flustered until, at last, he decided it was better to stay still. He settled on a chair, hot chocolate in his hands, watching Shaun work.

Shaun found himself oddly perturbed—almost as self-conscious as Grog. Yet the unsettling factor wasn’t physical for him. It was nothing to do with the bull-in-a-china-shop feeling his friend had experienced among so many delicate objects. No, for Shaun, it was a shiver up his spine spurred by the intense, unwavering gaze fixed on him. And the strange tenderness it held.

Things were particularly embarrassing when Shaun began to use magic. Something about it seemed to perk up every single sense Grog had. He would be absolutely fixated on the movements of Shaun’s hands, the shift of his lips as he murmured the somatic components, and the sparks of arcane power charging up whatever object he was enchanting.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” he blurted out, the fourth time it happened.

Grog blinked as if coming out of some deep contemplation. It was rare for so much to be going on in his head at all. He was so straight-forward, ordinarily.

“I’m alright,” he said.

“You’ve been staring.”

“I’m appreciating the view. While I can.”

Shaun blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t quite catch your meaning.”

His confusion seemed to bewilder Grog in turn.

“Well,” he explained. “I know you didn’t want me, before, when I was sick. But now things are improving, I’m wondering how much better I gotta get before you’ll sleep with me.”

Shaun let out a small choking noise. So that was still on Grog’s mind?

It surprised him. He’d been so distracted trying to behave like a doctor that the thought of their moment together hadn’t seemed important enough for his attention. He’d also assumed Grog would forget about the offer—about kissing him—in the light of day.

“It’s just I- I really want it,” Grog continued. “I’ve been thinking about kissing again you non-stop. But I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“Oh, Grog,” Shaun sighed.

He put down the tiny tools he was holding. He couldn’t even remember what he was working on, he was so light-headed.

“I’m sorry!” Grog said. “Maybe I shouldn’t’ve bought it up.”

“No,” Shaun said. “I want you to be honest with me. It just feels unexpected.”

“But I told you?”

“I thought you would change your mind.”

This time Grog looked completely floored. His astonishment shone from those expressive grey eyes like a lighthouse in the fog.

“Why?”

Shaun sputtered. “I don’t know, big guy. You never seemed like you were into me before, so I thought it was the fever.”

“But I flirt with you?”

“When?” his voice was strangely pitched.

“I dunno. I’m pretty sure I did.”

“ _When_?”

“All the time! When- well- I hit you on the ass, didn’t I?”

“In the heat of battle!”

“And I say stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff!”

“Well, I missed it!”

“Then, can I kiss you now?”

“You better!”

The urgency of Shaun’s own voice surprised him, the truth slipping out in answer to such a sudden question. But there was no time to be embarrassed. Grog lurched across the room in one stride, smile so wide it was blinding. He raised Shaun’s chin with surprising delicacy and pressed a chaste, honest kiss to his lips.

“See?” he whispered. “Feels good.”

Shaun blinked his eyes open and looked at Grog, so smug and pleased and proud of himself. He felt a smirk twist his mouth before he became consciously aware of the surge of confidence rushing through him.

“You really do want this?” he confirmed.

“So bad.”

“Then you can do better than that,” Shaun teased.

He looped his arms around Grog’s neck and pulled him down for another fierce, passionate kiss. For a heartbeat, Grog was frozen in surprise. Then his hands landed on Shaun’s arms, holding him tight, encouraging the strong grip. His mouth parted with a needy gasp. He pressed his body forward, so they were flush together.

The whole thing felt as immensely thrilling as the day before—more so, perhaps, because it was leading somewhere.

Grog was an eager partner, practically squirming with desperation only minutes into their make-out. Shaun backed him up until his back smacked against the low counter by his sink. He hooked a hand under one of Grog’s thighs and, taking the hint, the goliath let himself be pushed into a seated position. At this height, their eye-level was even.

Shaun grinned wickedly, planting his other hand against the back wall. Then he hitched that leg higher over his waist, bringing their bodies flush at the hips, and pulled Grog into another kiss. He could feel the length of his friend growing hard against him again. When he tilted his head and changed the angle of his tongue, Grog’s cock twitched in eager response.

Leaving him hungry, Shaun broke the kiss, nudging his nose against Grog’s cheek, then along his jaw, beard scratching his face, looking for the soft expanse of his neck. He spoke into warm, flush skin.

“So, have you been with a man before?”

“Nah,” Grog gasped. His hands fluttered at Shaun’s waist, gripping and releasing, totally uncontrolled. “I-I never thought about it much until- well, you, this weekend. I—”

He couldn’t seem to finish the sentence. There was a wordless groan. He surged up, trying to catch a new kiss.

“Uh, uh,” Shaun scolded, pulling back enough to elicit a pout, which made him laugh. “Am I really the first?”

Grog tried to catch his breath this time. His face scrunched, eyes drifting to the ceiling, as he pulled his thoughts back in. In a display of restraint, Shaun resisted the urge to rock their bodies together and scatter his composure.

“I guess I had fantasies about guys,” Grog managed at last. “Including you. Never really bothered to chase them. Seemed a lot to examine.”

“Why change it now?”

“Come on,” Grog huffed. “You can’t be that clueless.”

“Hm?”

“You must know you’re the most attractive man in Exandria.”

For a second, it was Shaun who lost the ability to speak. That was the thing about Grog; he was so unbearably honest. Every single word out of his mouth was something he believed absolutely. And when he _did_ lie. Well. It was always obvious.

There was no sign of flattery now. Just exasperation, that Shaun had never realised this simple fact. Just impatience, to get back to kissing.

“Praise like that deserves a little reward,” Shaun purred. “You ridiculous, wonderful man.”

Grog’s chest puffed out with pride, his eyes darkening mischievously. Shaun placed three quick pecks against his lips. Then he leaned to his ear and whispered, soft enough to make him shiver; “wait here.”

Grog let out a whine when he pulled back, seemingly involuntary. It was all Shaun could do to actually walk away from him.

“A little patience, my dear,” he sang.

He ducked out of the back room took a quick scan of his shop. Luckily, it was still empty. He scrawled a note for the front window, saying: _closed for the rest of the day. Apologies._ He had no time to think of an excuse. Then he flipped over the sign and locked the door, darting back to be with Grog.

Grog looked agonised from waiting. Yet he hadn’t moved. Interesting.

“Follow me,” Shaun instructed, pacing straight to the bedroom.

He heard Grog’s impatient feet following after. He crouched beside his bed, deliberately unhurried, allowing his partner a good view of his figure, and reached underneath.

“What are you—” Grog began.

Shaun withdrew with a tube of balm he saved for this very purpose, created specifically to ease friction. He grinned as Grog’s eyes lit up, recognising the pale pink colour of the stuff inside. Of course he was familiar with such things.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Grog asked softly, the eagerness making his voice shake.

“Actually,” Shaun said. “If you’ll take a seat…”

He gestured to the bed. Grog sprung to obey. That instinct always seemed to come easily to him. Shaun recalled more simple moments: asking him to move boxes, to push aside tables, to reach something on a ridiculously high shelf. Would he ever be able to make a request of Grog again without his mind turning toward this moment?

“I was thinking,” Shaun continued, voice low. “That I would ride you, darling. I’m not having you overextend yourself. I’m taking care of you.”

Grog swallowed visibly. His hands fisted in the sheets, as if he didn’t know quite what to do with himself. He nodded his head.

Shaun began to undress. He drew it out in case Grog had anything more to say, slowly working buttons free, drawing back fabric over skin. It had been a long time since he had any deep insecurities about his body—all the uncertainty of youth weighing him down—but here, still, a flash of tension came when he lost his outer layer and stood in his underclothes.

He glanced sideways. He found slate eyes roaming his body, a mouth hanging open in pleased appreciation, and one large hand palming the bulge in Grog’s lap.

“Grog?”

“Yeah?” The word was barely coherent.

“You had better get naked for me too.”

“Oh!” Grog’s hands flew to his waist, where he only wore one of Shaun’s old sarongs, easy to get rid of.

Shaun continued at his slow pace, but, confidence piqued, he now did so with his dark eyes fixed upon his friend--undisguised hunger on his face.

Grog immediately began to touch himself again, releasing a small gasp.

“Sweet one,” Shaun scolded. “I’m not letting you come too soon.”

With a whine, Grog obeyed once again, returning his hands to his sides. His cock was larger even than it had seemed before. Shaun let out his own hum of appreciation.

…

That noise, so small and uncontrolled, was enough to make Grog feel like he was floating. He could scarcely believe this was happening. Gilmore looked so remarkable, brave and confident, standing on strong, thick thighs as he kicked aside the last of his clothing. Hair curled over a stomach so soft Grog wanted to be held snug against him, enveloped in welcoming warmth.

Even Gilmore’s lips were quirked in a satisfied smile. One which, Grog knew, might grow deeper. He wanted to elicit every contentment possible from this man. It may as well have been his life’s ambition, it felt so important.

“Now, if you’re sure you want this…” Gilmore said.

“Yes!” the word tumbled out. “Yes, yes, absolutely!”

Gilmore ran his hands slowly down his body, as though revelling in his own nakedness. Grog had often been fascinated by those hands. They had the soft, delicate palms of a merchant, but surprisingly sturdy fingers, with thick knuckles and compression marks from rings. They were magic hands.

Gilmore carefully turned during his ministrations, giving Grog a side view, and then a perfect angle of his back, stature broad, waist curved in, lovely pudge of fat dimpling the shoulder blades. He let his fingers dig into his skin as he roamed down his own hips, and then behind, surely parting his cheeks, dipping briefly to touch his own hole. He hummed happily again.

He picked up his lubricant, tipped it upside down, and watched pale pink pour out. It coated his fingers, slick and wet. He tossed the bottle on the bed and returned to his position.

“ _Gilmore_ ,” Grog breathed.

“Yes, Grog?”

His tone was carefully measured, perhaps in another attempt to tease. He slid one finger inside himself, arching his neck and sighing.

“Please,” Grog said.

“Please?” Gilmore asked, deepening the strain inside himself, curling the knuckle just right.

“Please, can’t I touch you?”

Gilmore’s smile was a flash of teeth and a sparkle in his eyes. He withdrew, ass tensing just slightly around the parting pressure, and turned.

“I suppose I can allow that,” he said.

He stalked forward. One, two steps. He straddled Grog’s lap again and kissed him, as if in greeting. Grog tipped his head back, begging to be taken.

“Let me guide you,” Gilmore said.

His hand fumbled for the discarded bottle. Then he was laying Grog’s palm flat, like a fortune teller, fingers stilling along the pulse at the wrist. He poured lavishly from his bottle of lubricant, apparently as generous in this as he was in life. He followed it with a safe-sex cantrip—a little glow of gold and a trickle of heat down in Grog’s belly.

Then Gilmore’s hands wrapped firm around Grog’s, and guided them up over his hips, down the small of his back. Grog couldn’t resist the urge to just cup his ass, feeling the weight of it, round against his palms. He gave the gentlest squeeze, then allowed one hand to be eased on, carefully slipping into Shaun’s cleft.

Shaun growled a little sound of approval. He changed his stance, thighs widening, backing his ass further into Grog’s touch. Grog ran one finger slow around his hole.

“Get inside me,” Shaun hissed.

Grog did as he commanded, marvelling as he sank deep to the first knuckle, and Shaun’s face dipped to the crook of his neck, a little gasp absorbed into his throat.

“That’s it, big guy, I need you to work me, okay? If I’m about to fit you inside me…”

He let the implication trail, and braced his hands around Grog’s shoulders, grazing his teeth gently over the skin at Grog’s jawline. Grog whined, fingers twitching.

Slowly, they sank into movement together. Grog tried his best to be sweet and steady and careful, but Gilmore’s appetite seemed more urgent now. He coaxed him into adding another finger, and then, soon after, another. His hands were still planted against Grog, and he let his back arch. Long, unbound hair was cascading down his shoulders.

Grog allowed himself his first shy peak at Gilmore’s cock in such close quarters. He was instantly captivated. Gilmore was hard, his tip shining wet, and so surprisingly thick that Grog’s mouth actually watered at the thought of sucking him off later. He could feel the phantom ache in his jaw.

Shaun seemed to notice. He reached one of his hands down and quickly palmed his own length, giving a sly smile as Grog’s eyes darted to his face.

“I need more,” he murmured. “Come on, Grog, it’s time.”

Grog only managed a groan. He slowly slid his fingers out, missing the warmth instantly, and almost losing his thoughts entirely as he felt Gilmore’s hole flutter against him.

Gilmore seemed to miss it too. He immediately adjusted himself, pushing Grog backward onto pillows, commanding and insistent, as he found the angle he wanted. His hand went to guide Grog’s cock inside himself, and Grog actually whimpered at the hot touch against the desperate length of him. The sound turned to a disbelieving gasp when Shaun finally sank onto him, slow and careful, adjusting to the girth buried deeper and deeper and—

“Grog, you absolute _angel,_ ” he sighed. “The way you feel.”

“The way _you_ feel,” Grog protested.

And sure, Grog had fucked plenty of people in the ass before, but this felt different, somehow. It was so intimate it was almost unbearable. He felt right on the edge of coming, and they had barely begun.

He stayed as still as possible, very conscious of his own size, wanting to avoid the impossibly painful thought that he might hurt this man. So, Gilmore began to move. He went slowly at first. But before long, he reached for Grog’s hands again, palm over palm on his own hips.

“Hold me up, sweetie,” he said. “My thighs aren’t _that_ strong.”

Grog let out a chuckle, immediately helping as best he could. Gilmore raised an eyebrow, impressed, and rocked into him a little harder. He grinned rather wickedly—the expression reminding Grog of the heat of battle—spells of clever charisma, and intense eye contact, and a rune shining bright on Gilmore’s forehead.

It sent chills down his spine and heat flaring in his belly.

“You—” Grog turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut, overwrought. “You’re so—”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Gilmore said firmly. He leaned forward, bracing himself against Grog’s chest with one hand, using the other to turn his chin back. “Let me see those eyes.”

“Fuck,” Grog whined, bucking his hips harder.

Their connection was made shallower by the angle now, but it allowed another advantage—sharp quick thrusts of desperate need, building heat. They were slick with sweat. Shaun’s skin glistened in firelight, the room full of the sounds of breathing and the way their bodies moved together.

Gilmore turned out to be a vocal partner too. It surprised Grog, somehow, and yet felt so right and so _necessary_ that it made him even giddier. Pitchy gasps poured from his mouth with every careful compliment and every devastating, teasing line. When Gilmore laughed at his debauched appearance, the sound seemed to vibrate through them both, sending Grog so close to the edge that…

“I’m about to come,” he gasped. “Gilmore, I’m so—”

Gilmore stopped. Grog hissed in disappointment, eyes flying up to his.

“Why—”

“Shh,” Gilmore soothed. He leaned down and kissed him once, lips softer than a shard of light catching the mist in early dawn. “Gently now.”

Grog leaned into Gilmore’s mouth, but he pulled away further, sinking deeper on Grog’s cock, holding himself up, once more, with the remaining strength of his thighs. He eased down so slowly it skirted the edge of agonising. Then, with an expert grind of his hips, he settled into a new pattern. He reached his other hand up and began to touch himself, fingers skirting his whole length and swiping over his head, gathering moisture.

Grog yelped desperately. His fingers dimpled deeper into Gilmore’s hips, like an anchor tying him to earth—like something in his chest settling into place at last—finding home.

Grog reached his climax all at once. His hands flew to cover his face, which was flushed and overcome and vulnerable and—

Gilmore caught his wrists, his touch so sweet. He lifted one hand and pressed a kiss to the palm, twining their fingers together on the other side. He gently rocked through the last stuttering movements of Grog’s hips, though by now, his own thighs were shaking from the exertion.

Grog’s pleasure mellowed out and he felt his limbs grow loose, a smile plastered on his face. Gilmore gently eased off of him. He went to touch himself again.

“Let me—” Grog began.

“I’m so close, gorgeous, it won’t be long.”

“Then come on me,” Grog pleaded. “I need more of you. I _need_ you.”

Gilmore sighed with pleasure. He settled his weight entirely on Grog’s lap, knowing he was strong enough to bear it. He stroked himself quick and desperate and, all at once, he came, ribbons of white across Grog’s belly.

“ _Grog_ ,” he breathed.

Grog watched him shyly as he returned from the height of the orgasm. He sighed, somewhat exhausted, and collapsed into the bed, automatically curling his body closer to Grog’s side.

Grog raised a curious hand and brushed a thumb through the come cooling on his torso. His own muscles tensed in anticipation beneath his touch, as he raised his fingers to his mouth and tasted Gilmore.

“Oh,” he breathed, salt on his tongue, honeyed eyes staring at him.

Gilmore hummed an acknowledgement.

“I’d like to taste that again,” Grog said.

He felt the laughter as much as he saw it, vibrating through his chest. Then he turned sideways to admire the full impact of a contented, joyful Gilmore.

“ _Can_ we do this again sometime?” he asked.

“Again?”

“Yeah,” Grog knew he was blushing now, but really, he couldn’t possibly be embarrassed about intimacy or vulnerability anymore. Not with this man. “Next time we’re both free. I’d like it.”

He had never seen the sorcerer lost for words. But now, Gilmore’s lips parted, and nothing came out. Satisfaction swamped Grog’s heart—painted gold by a deep, gut-twisting affection.

“Alright,” Gilmore said. “Next time. For now, let’s get cleaned up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, okay, there it is. find me on twitter @ceylonthae and leave comments here if you want to make me happy!


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